Reasons for Defying Reason
by decemberxrain
Summary: After the traumatizing death of her grandfather, Odette Babineaux is left with one choice: leave New Orleans to accept her inheiritance- her great uncle's mansion. With Edward, can Odette learn the true meaning of acceptance and love before it's too late?
1. Chapter 1

Prologue

Every tear from the eye of that man was worth its weight in diamonds – even though they were so freely shed. There were, however, few things that would incite them. Among them was joy. Another was sadness but only of the purest kind. He was far too used to normal sadness anyway. Loneliness and pain no longer affected him. He lived too long in solitude to care much. He often wished he could say that he preferred his solitary lifestyle but he didn't. He knew deep down that he only remained alone to protect himself. He was too different to be accepted and so wrongly accused of crimes he didn't commit that he would be locked up and alone once again even if he did return to normal society. So he decided he would remain forgotten and hoped that, through the course of his immortal life, he would find a way to somehow mend his broken heart. By using the seasons, he deduced that it had been fifty years since the day his heart had shattered and, so far, he had had no such luck fixing it.

Chapter 1

Picture Perfect

There were few things I hated more than plane rides. The rows and rows of strangers made me uneasy. I've found that each seemed to do one of two things: stare at you incessantly or ignore you completely. If given a choice between the two, I'd choose the latter even though that usually consists of the man in front of me leaning his seat back until he's practically in my lap and the child behind me kicking the back of my seat. The only thing I wanted was to land but, unfortunately, the flight tracker screen on the seat in front of me indicated there was still 30 minutes until arrival. I groaned and leaned back, feeling the _thump, thump_ of the kicks at the back of my seat.

My mind wandered to my final days in New Orleans which had been, aside from the devastating loss of my grandfather, the most depressing time in my life. I was born and raised in New Orleans. My friends were there. My family was there. My education was there. I hadn't intended for this to happen at all but it did. The memory of packing that last box was still fresh and painful as an open wound in my mind. But now I was leaving that world of life and fun behind for an unknown future in some little no-name town in the Midwest. And all this was thanks to a little piece of paper – my grandfather's will.

My eyes shot open suddenly as the captain's voice echoed through the cabin.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking; we've just gotten clearance to land. Please fasten your seatbelts. We'll be landing in 10 minutes." The intercom clicked off.

I inwardly shouted with joy and waited patiently. To my delight, we touched down with 2 minutes to spare and I fumbled with the seatbelt to stand. It was the smallest airport I'd ever seen. People shuffled slowly about as if they had nowhere to be. After snatching up my luggage, I tore out of the airport and was greeted by a chubby old man with a bushy gray beard holding a sign that read, "Babineaux". Recognizing my last name, I approached him cautiously. He grinned.

"Welcome, Miss Babineaux!" he began, "I'll be driving you to your destination. Here, allow me." He ripped my bags from my fingers and tossed them into the trunk of the green and white checkered taxicab behind him. I cleared my throat.

"Thank you, Mister - ?" I paused. "Harold. But everyone calls me Harry!" he finished for me. I offered him a nervous smile as he helped me into the taxi.

"So, where to, Miss Babineaux?" he inquired.

"513 South Main Street, please? The college apartments?"

With a smile from Harry, we were off, cruising past tiny suburb homes and mom-n-pop restaurants. We arrived at the apartments which consisted of only two floors and Harry helped me drag my luggage to the second floor, number 23. For his sweet personality and helpful nature, I paid him for the meter and added in a handsome tip. I had a feeling Harry would turn out to be a good friend of mine after that kind of payment. With annoyed distaste, I unpacked my bags into the already furnished bedroom.

The apartment was small and only included one bedroom, one bathroom, and a kitchen/living room. I sighed and told myself to stop being selfish. After all, this apartment was plenty of space for a college student. I was only 20 and lived alone so what more did I need? But, however positive I tried to make the situation seem, my mind wandered back to how I was forced to transfer from the University of New Orleans to the town's community college. I knew I was being unreasonable by getting angry but I couldn't help it. I finally decided to end the argument with myself by saying, "It's what grandpa wanted." I retired to my bed, still unhappy with my luck.

The next day my boxes full of possessions arrived, surprisingly unharmed. Because I didn't own much of anything, I made short work of moving in. After an hour of staring at the television which must've been from the sixties, I stood, determined to do something productive. Perhaps I'd look around town. I gently cradled my most prized possession, my camera, in my hands as I boarded the town bus. The people in town were kind and friendly. They seemed particularly interested in my camera, all asking if I would take pictures of them which I did politely. No one seemed to understand that I wasn't some tourist's photographer. I was studying to be a photographic reporter and, with any luck, my photographs would be featured in famous magazines like National Geographic or on well-known news networks like CNN.

I paused for a moment at a small book shop and entered. I meandered curiously through the shelves until I spotted an old woman, carrying a stack of books even taller than her. Nervously, I spoke, "Ma'am, may I help you with that?" I heard a grunt in reply. I was suddenly laden with volumes of books so heavy I thought my arms would fall off.

"Nice of you to ask, dear. Now put them on those high shelves right there. That's right, letters S to Z. Use the author's last name." So, without knowing the reason why, I began placing the books on their proper shelves. The old woman, with her wiry gray hair piled high on her head and her wrinkled old hands on her wide hips, smiled and watched me. I finished the job with a volume called "Praying Mantis: Cannibal Insect".

"You're hired." I heard the woman's graveled voice croak out. "Come in tomorrow at 10 am. I'll show you the ropes. Now, I'm closing up for the day. So, would you mind?" She gestured to the door. Unsure of what to do, I followed the woman's order. Had I just gotten a job? In a small town like this, I knew it would be easy but I never knew it would happen so suddenly. I suppose I couldn't complain though. After all, taking pictures wouldn't put food on the table, even if it was just ramen noodles. I needed income badly. Maybe my luck was turning around.

I walked without knowing exactly how far. The pastel colors of the suburban homes fascinated me. How strange they were. They looked to be built in the fifties or sixties but surely the colors were weird even then, right? Each home seemed to be an exact replica of the others, save for an added on garage or perhaps a new fence. I chuckled to myself, imagining that each family in these houses also looked exactly the same but were different pastel colors. Most of the residents were extremely old citizens that had probably lived there 50 years. Many of the community's gossips watched as I passed and whispered hungrily to their friends, no doubt about how I'm new to town. I wasn't sure I'd enjoy living here that much if the whole town was one big sorority. To distract myself, I began pointing my camera lens at random objects, looking for a good shot. It was no good. Everything was just too…monotonous.

Without noticing, I walked into a cool, long shadow. A large hill protruded from the flatlands and bent majestically over the cul-de-sac. Perched atop the peak like a wise old owl, there stood a dilapidated-looking mansion, seemingly crumbling to the ground. What a strange place. As I stood pondering the odd placement of such a historic building, it hit me. From my pocket I pulled a folded stack of papers. A small paragraph was highlighted in obnoxious yellow. It read:

"To my granddaughter, Odette Babineaux, I leave my one inheritance which I received from my older brother when he passed – his mansion home. I give this to her because it is my hope that she will treasure and care for it. While in my possession, I was unable to attend to it due to my age. I pass it to her so she might do what I never could." A small card revealed the address of this mansion. It was just as I thought. This dump is my inheritance? Grandpa expected me to fix THAT? I reread the paragraph. "Treasure and care for", huh? With a sigh of defeat, I trudged forward past the iron gates and up the steep dirt path to the mansion. I might as well give it the benefit of the doubt. Besides, I can imagine there being some great photo-ops up there. At the thought, my excitement was renewed and I broke into a dash.

On the way up, my camera's memory began to fill with pictures of varying elevation above the town and crooked trees along the path. By the time I reached the second set of wicked-looking wrought iron gates, a grin of satisfaction was plastered over my face.

My breath was caught in my chest as I peeked into the courtyard. Even when I could breathe properly, all I could do was gasp and sigh in amazement. The gardens were so trimmed and well-kept. Lush green bushes and topiaries of different imaginative shapes littered the grounds. A grassy green sea monster seemed to swim through the yard and a majestic leafy stag was poised mid-prance. At the center of the courtyard, a foliate hand appeared to stretch skyward with all its might. Flowers were overflowing from their beds and filled the grounds with a sweet, radiating fragrance. If the outside looked like this, I wonder what the inside looks like. So, after nearly ten minutes of picture-taking bliss, I found myself standing at the massive wooden door. With a great push, I felt the door swing open to reveal the mansion.

I stopped, eyes wide and trying to understand. The inside was so…ragged. So dusty. So shoddy. It looked as if it hadn't been lived in for decades which, I suppose, is what I had originally expected but after such a lovely sight as the gardens, I wanted more. Every step I took into the musty air was traced by my dusty footprints on the floor. It was all so wide and open. I swore I could've heard my heartbeat echo. Along a wall were hundreds of cobweb-covered, rusted old contraptions on a conveyor belt. I had never seen such things before. I took a few snapshots of them, dangling from cables, which I found to be rather beautiful in an unusual and unlikely way. I remembered my parents explaining to me that my great-uncle, whose old home I was in, was some sort of genius inventor and I had to say that I agreed. These little homemade instruments were wonderful and weird. The sudden creaking of a floorboard above alerted me. I silently crept to the staircase, snapping a picture or two of the interesting statue covered in spider webs, its arms outstretched as if being crucified. I shuddered at the thought.

The grandeur of the staircase humbled me, made me feel so small and insignificant. For a moment, I wondered if perhaps my great-uncle felt the same way when walking up and down such a regal staircase. I winced as I stepped on a squeaky step. The noise in the still air startled me greatly. I emerged at the top to be met with a gaping hole in the wood roof. A welcome cool breeze tossed my long, wavy, brown locks and swept along my fair cheeks. _Click_. I took a picture and smiled. This house was incredible. Its past seemed so mysterious and I felt as if every photo I took was magical. I walked to my right toward a broken window. I raised my camera to snap a photograph when, out of the corner of my viewfinder, I saw a bed and scraps of paper on the floor. Slowly, I went to investigate. On the wall above the bed were clippings from magazines and newspapers all brought together like some sort of misfit's collage. _Click_.

I turned around to face the left side of the room which was shrouded in shadows. _Click_. I inspected the picture on my digital screen and became puzzled at the slightest glint of light in the middle of darkness. I looked up only to be met with a tall figure, gleaming in the shadows. I gasped and backed away. "Oh my God…" I began,"I'm sorry. I didn't know there was someone staying here. I – I – was just…." The figure slowly approached, menacingly. I almost reached the staircase, ready to break into a run.

"Are you leaving?" I heard a boyish voice whimper. The dark man became half-immersed in the sunlight streaming in through the hole in the ceiling. His face was ghostly white and hair was wild and jet black. I attempted to scamper further away but tripped, scraping my knees in the process and allowing a pained squeak to escape my lips. I heard rushing feet behind me.

"Are you alright?" The worried voice asked. I turned and was faced with multiple blades, reaching for my face. In a panic, I seized my camera and fled. Tears of fright threatened to spill over onto my cheeks as I ran down the hill once more, confused and prepared to never return to that house again.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

There were few things I hated more than defying my own wishes. For nearly two weeks since arriving, I had avoided the mansion upon the hill as if it were the plague, using my schoolwork as a well-devised excuse not to go venturing far from my apartment again. Who knew what weird things could be lurking around those suburbs? So, with that in mind and resolute determination in heart, I spent many long hours going above and beyond the requirements of my homework, this being the only way to keep my bursting curiosity at bay.

However, as the days progressed, I found myself staring for long periods of time at all my photographs that I had taken for my assignments. My chocolate eyes glinted critically over their contents until I finally made up my mind: I hated them. They were purely monotonous and boring and I understood the reason why I was near the bottom of my Digital Imaging class. The rest of the class, as I understood it from a minimal amount of eavesdropping, traveled far and wide for great shots while I, who was too afraid of a knife-carrying serial killer to even step into the suburbs, remained downtown, snapping shots of the same old movie theatre, streetlights, and sidewalk benches.

I could no longer take it. So with a can of pepper spray tucked snugly in my pocket, I wandered back to the only place in the whole town where I felt happy. In fact, it was the only place where I felt the same childlike wonder and awe that made me aspire to become a photographer in the first place – the mansion.

Standing at the bottom of the hill, I had completely forgotten why I ever returned to that horrible place. It was only the weight of my camera around my neck which I had become so accustomed to that it was, in fact, part of me that reminded me of my reasoning. However, what once sounded so brave and brilliant began sounding rather foolish. Suddenly, like a ton of bricks, resoluteness hit me and swiftly overtook me. I was too competitive to let my classmates best me like this. I _needed_ these pictures. So, I took my first step. It felt as if I were wearing lead shoes but the camera swinging from my neck and the can of pepper spray in my white-knuckled grip fed my determination.

I stumbled wearily through the iron gates, once again met with the splendor of the green garden. It baffled me how lovely it appeared in comparison to the mansion. For a moment, I rested, attempting to settle my churning stomach. I breathed in the fresh air deeply as I caught my breath. I most certainly wasn't used to this. New Orleans was flat as flat could be so, as one could imagine, my legs were skinny little twigs that, at the moment, felt like snapping.

Unsure of what exactly I was hoping to catch on camera, I took pictures of damn near everything. I fumbled with the large door before pushing my way inside. I was bombarded with dust and the scent of mold. 'This place should be condemned, not restored!' I thought irritably. Scratching in the walls alerted me and I defensively aimed my pepper spray, threateningly. A mouse scampered between my feet. 'Oh, of course, this place must be heaven for mice and rats.' I pondered with a shudder. Rats. Yuck. Mice I could handle. They're small and cute but rats? Hell no. I meandered meaninglessly throughout the first floor, once again taking pictures of everything.

The shrill and unpleasant sound of metal scraping against the floor frightened me into tripping clumsily over the source of the noise. It was an odd device – or rather a part of a device for the wires extending from the end of it appeared to have been connected to something larger and more complex. Rusted blades grew unnaturally from the metal base. There were five blades…or, perhaps, scissors? Careful not to cut myself, I picked it up and tossed it over and over in my palm. It resembled a hand but was almost too gruesome to imagine being such. I turned toward the rest of the machinery and approached. The mechanisms all looked like body parts. Thin metal legs (which reminded me of my own) were suspended over a conveyor belt but, instead of feet, they had what looked like cookie cutters at the bottom. Following the belt, I came to a large opening which looked like a face opening its mouth to devour the conveyor belt. The eyes looked ferocious and looking into them made me nervous. Below the large head, I noticed a furnace of sorts. One which burned coal. This whole place was designed to make cookies? With this strange epiphany, I looked at the machines in a new light. It was almost…cute. Each device had its own personality and function. Clever, really, and weird to think that my own great uncle came up with such a funny scheme.

_Snip. Snip._ I looked around, startled. It was a din so soft I was scarcely sure I even heard it. Perhaps my mind was playing tricks on me. _Snip. Snip. _But there it was again! My sun-kissed hand quickly made for the pepper spray waiting in my pocket. _Snip. Snip. Snip. _I searched the room quickly. It sounded as if it came from above. I shivered. On the top floor, I remember, was where I was met with that murderer. A loud creak resonated through the hall and with it, my terrified squeal. I raised my cell phone to my face, the numbers 9-1-1 on the screen and my finger on the call button, as I climbed the regal steps, one stair at a time - stopping after each one, listening, and then climbing another.

I reached the second and third floors without incident, however, before I could explore their contents, I heard the noise again. _Snip. Snip. Snip. _Only, this time, it was louder. I continued to follow it up the stairs. The last flight of stairs was flooded with gray-white light from the gaping hole that I knew was waiting for me at the top floor. My palm was sweaty and I had trouble holding the pepper spray in my quivering fingers as I ascended the steps. The large fissure in the wooden roof greeted me with overcast gray skies and a magnificent view of the town. Momentarily, I was lost in wonder. A slight squeak penetrated my mind and I watched the floorboards before me as a rat twiddled by. I fumbled backwards. I hate rats! The same creak echoed about the room that I had heard before. I lifted my foot off the loose floorboard. As I did this, I noticed something rather unusual about the rat that continued across the room. Did it have a…Mohawk? Why the hell would a rat have a Mohawk? Absentmindedly, I tucked my phone away and followed after it.

The rat seemed less than thrilled about my stalking it like a cat so it scurried quickly into an orifice in the wall. I began twisting my frizzy curls around my fingers as I always do when I'm confused. I sighed disgustedly. "Dirty little things." With a groan, I stood and turned to leave. All those noises must've been my imagination. As I looked up, however, I froze to my spot.

I saw a dark figure standing tall in the shadows, its shoulders hunched slightly. With a great effort, it seemed, the figure took a heavy step forward, then another, and another. I couldn't bring myself to move though I so desperately wanted to run. Into the light the person stumbled. My breath caught in my chest and I couldn't force it out. The man before me was a terrible sight to behold. Pale skin like moonlight, a mess of unkempt black hair piled on top of his head, sunken dark eyes, a frame so thin he looked as if he hadn't eaten. He looked like a skeleton with skin and hair except for his hands which were the most awful part. In place of hands, he had two of the blade-devices I had tripped over on the ground floor. They snipped away as if he were fidgeting. His gawky form seemed to try to sink back into the shadows and his eyes looked away as if he were ashamed. Only his arms poked forward slightly. It seemed like they were the only things keeping him in full view. They seemed to lead him toward me though the rest of him so obviously wanted to hide.

My eyes began to water from not blinking but I couldn't allow myself to as I took in his entirety. I despised looking at him. He was unattractive and frightening but something in my mind had sympathy for him. I found myself in full control of my body once more but I still didn't leave. I felt that I couldn't leave such a pitiful creature. So, I decided to start with the basics. "Hello." I muttered slowly as if talking to a small child. He seemed so…inhuman that I wasn't sure he could even speak. But he did. "H-Hello." He stuttered back to me in a meek voice. I shifted uncomfortably. What was I supposed to say after that? This guy looks like he's never even had a decent conversation. For an awkward moment, we stared each other down. Finally, I opened my mouth to speak.

"Do you live here?" I gestured around us. He nodded shortly. "How old are you?" He shrugged. "Are you all by yourself?" He looked very sorrowful suddenly and slowly nodded again. I sighed. This conversation didn't seem to be gaining any ground. So, I turned and began meandering through the room, inspecting floorboards and wallpaper. The collage caught my eye and I gravitated to it. I noticed new clippings pasted on top of older pictures. It was getting quite full. I felt his eyes lingering on me, examining me cautiously. I stood straight and pointed to the collage. "Did you make that?" Even though he seemed to completely understand me, I still was in the habit of speaking to him as if he were a child. I knew it was rude and somehow, I had a feeling he knew too but he remained silent about it. He nodded in response.

"It's very pretty, ya know." I placed my hands on my hips. I saw a shadow of a smile creep across his lips for a moment. "Thank you," he whispered in his small voice. It really was quite nice. He mixed black and white and colored pictures for an interesting effect but the subject matter was very scattered.

"Is that a camera?" I was taken aback. "Umm…yes." I held the camera in my palms as if cradling it. "I'm a photographer. You know what a photographer is, don't you?"

He smiled more and nodded. "Yes, there were lots of them when I lived down there." He pointed with a shiny metal finger out the large hole in the ceiling and down to the town. "You lived down there? When? How long?" I was rather curious as to why no one had ever told me anything about this person. Surely someone would've mentioned a young man with scissors for hands. He seemed lost in thought but I heard him mumble. "A long time ago. For only a little while."

I took a step forward – an uncertain shuffle, really – an action that surprised not only the pitiful young man but also myself. "What happened?"

He turned his gaunt face towards me, sallow cheeks looking like great chasms, a sorrowful stare coming from his coal black eyes. "She did." His voice seemed to retreat fearfully into his chest. His words were barely audible. He suddenly became small to my eyes – like a child. He was so deprived of affection. Slowly – gently – I extended my arm. It finally began to sink in that he was a human capable of happiness, sadness, anger, and, most of all, love. I shut my eyes tightly, afraid of the coming feeling and disgusted by the scars upon his face. My fingertips touched cold, hard metal and those feelings of judgment and repulsion vanished all at once, like smoke in the wind.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

There were few things I hated more than dreaming. Dreams are misleading. They are nothing but cruel lies told by our subconscious – nothing but unfortunate nonsense that, when we wake, further reinforces our notions that what is reality shall remain reality. Dreams will never come true. Not the ones I have, at least. Some call me a pessimist but I prefer the term "realist".

I had that dream again. It jolted me awake in the middle of the night; the blackness was so deep that I had originally believed my eyes were still closed. I stayed still for a moment, trying to remember the dream but, as usual, the harder I tried, the more of it would slip away until it was nothing but a wisp of a dream. I only recalled hands, reaching out. I turned over to my side to switch on my bedside lamp but paused for a moment when I caught sight of my ceiling. Above my head was the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. God's strong hand reached for Adam's. I stared for a while. They moved closer and closer, just about to touch, when I pulled myself from my daze and turned on the lamp. The painting disappeared as the warm light flooded the dark room.

I slowly opened my eyes. No painting. My bedside lamp was off. The sunlight from my window crept past my sheer curtains. My alarm clock buzzed vigorously. It read 7:34 AM. I heaved a great sigh. It was just a dream. Glancing once more at my clock, I convinced myself to roll out of bed. If I waited any longer, I could be late for work. It was another dull Tuesday. I hated Tuesdays. They were an unfriendly way of the universe saying that there's still time for your life to get worse before the weekend.

The book shop was empty – as per usual. The world seemed to have forgotten about books. Paper and pen seemed so primitive nowadays. The internet was putting shops like this one out of business. But if I knew anything about my boss, Henrietta, she wouldn't take no for an answer. Her primeval attitude and stubbornness made her an old maid with no friends and no life outside of the confines of her book shop. If no one else liked what she liked, everyone else was wrong. That was her thinking most days. It was her position on her shop as well. So, in protest of the internet, she refused to use it.

"Oh good, you're here! Now, hurry up dammit and get to sorting these damn books. They're all out of place! Damn kids…" she demanded, peppering her words with profanity as she always did. She hobbled away, mumbling, to the back room where, I believe, she slept, her wiry gray hair bouncing as she stepped. I searched through the shelves to find that there were at least 20 books out of place in each genre. I always found this rather odd since we had only 1 or 2 customers a week on average. However, I soon understood what was happening. Either we had a serious case of vandalism or old Henrietta was so deep in denial about her shop going downhill that, each night, she disorganized the books herself to keep me busy. The latter seemed much more likely. Her neurotic tendencies, at the very least, kept me entertained.

She allowed me to leave early as she usually did. Six hours of work wasn't bad, especially since there was no work to do. It was my belief that she hired me simply to keep her company, even though she hated company and often expressed to me just how much she did. I appreciated the work though and wouldn't complain.

I waited patiently at the bus stop as the sun dipped lower into the sky, mumbling hello's to people passing by. In the last three months that I've been here, I've gotten to know quite a few of the town's residents. Mostly, they were elderly empty nesters whose children had moved on to bigger and better things. I couldn't help but be envious of those kids. Marge, a sweet but timid old woman, hobbled over to the bench beside me and plopped down. Neither of us spoke to the other but I was happy for the company. She flipped through a magazine slowly, reading every word as if it were the Bible. Glancing over curiously, I spotted a page as she flipped. On it was a beautiful brunette model in a white dress dashing through a field of marigolds, peering over her shoulder to the camera. Immediately, my mind wandered to the mansion on the hill – my mansion – and what was inside it. The boy with the sad face who loved collages. Before I could stop myself, I leaned over and politely interrupted Marge's reading.

"Excuse me, would you mind if I stole a page from that magazine? It…." I started, trying to think of a good cover story, "It's an interesting angle for a photograph and I'd like to try to mimic it."

Marge smiled at me through thin pink lips and squinted brown eyes. She softly dropped the magazine onto my lap. "I've read it twice already." Astounded that she'd give me the whole thing, I sat and watched as she rose and shuffled onto the bus that had just arrived. It wasn't until the bus driver, Charlie, called to me, asking if I was getting on, that I awoke from my trance. Slightly embarrassed, I nodded and boarded the bus.

As we approached the suburban area of the town, I felt myself growing more and more nervous. Why? I couldn't figure out. Surely, one should never be nervous about being nice to someone. I simply feel like he needs a friend – or rather, an acquaintance – who understands his interests. But perhaps I was thinking too highly of myself. The bus jerked to a stop at the corner of Walnut and Cherrywood. A few elderly women with their husbands and I stepped off the bus. I walked with a determined bounce in my step down the street, past cul-de-sacs and barking dogs.

I ignored all other human beings until I felt the familiar, cool wave of shadow slide over me. Craning my next to look up, I saw the mansion – no, MY mansion – at the top of the hill. It was mine, wasn't it? This thought boosted my confidence. If he's rude or mean to me at any point, I could kick him out, easily. Then, I stopped. What on earth am I thinking? The poor thing doesn't even have anywhere else to go and here I am, thinking about evicting him! Maybe I really WAS a vile person after all. I began to slump up the side of the hill, with these self-destructive thoughts in my head. Squeezing through the iron gates again, I noticed a pile of messy black curls bobbing up and down behind the stag.

"Edward?" I whimpered out, bending down to look beneath the stag's belly. "Is that you?" Suddenly, his ghostly pale face appeared beneath the stag's stomach as well, looking lifeless as ever. When he saw me though, I thought I saw a ghost of a smile on his lips. I jumped back in terror. He walked around to my side, his half smile replaced with a sad frown. "I'm sorry." He mumbled with his head hanging low.

"Oh, no! I wasn't frightened of you! You just startled me, jumping out like that."

An awkward silence followed in which neither of us knew what the other was thinking. My arms, stiff as boards, stretched out and offered him the magazine. "I – uh – got this for you." Those words seemed so foreign, seeing as they sounded like I had been thinking about get him a gift in the first place. I showed him the picture of the girl. He was drawn in and fascinated. I knew he would like it. He beckoned me to follow him up the stairs inside the mansion. So I did. As we reached the top floor, he took a sudden right and stopped at his collage and bed. I smiled and laid out the magazine for him.

I flipped through the pages until he pointed to a picture he liked. I would rip it out, he would cut it up, and then we'd both paste it onto his wall. We did this through the entire magazine. He really did enjoy himself. Somehow, his smile affected me in a way. Like a contagion or virus, it infected me until I felt my own smile on my lips. My cheeks ached but I didn't mind. I realized then that, even though I own the mansion, he has all the control. He didn't flaunt it. In fact, he had no idea he had it. But it was there. A silent, gentle control that made me want to buy all the magazines in the world just so I can see his smile again. However, small and fragile it was.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

There were few things I hated more than chores. It was the weekend – a Saturday specifically – and I spent it indoors. I was tired of looking at the dirt and grime that covered every inch of the mansion's windows and floors. I resolved then to clean it up. And I was fierce. I scrubbed, scraped, and wiped down every window pane, every glass surface, every mantelpiece until it shone in the sunlight streaming through the newly polished windows.

I brought in a straw broom to sweep up the dust bunnies that ran rampant across the wooden floors and hid in the corners from my wrath. With a heave, I swept the large pile of dirt out the door and down the steps. I felt the sweat drip down my temples from the effort I was putting into pushing and pulling as I pumped the water from a well into a plastic bucket. The pump hadn't been used for years so I heave-hoed for what felt like hours before a trickle of cool water dribbled into the bucket. Finally, a decent stream of water filled the pail to the very top. Waddling like a duck, I carried the bucket into the house with it dangling between my legs. I thought my arms would fall off! I mopped back and forth across the floor until it was nearly drenched with water. Then once more, I went over it with the now wrung out mop to absorb the extra liquid. The floors were quite beautiful. They were a sleek and deep cherry. The rich color made the entire home look warm and inviting. Yet still, I grumbled about my hatred of chores.

The only thing keeping me sane during this endeavor was the music that flooded the house from an old radio. The beat made me rock my hips back and forth in time. I hummed the tune quietly to myself. Before long, however my hums became loud, tone-deaf singing. Had I remembered Edward's presence, I might've been quieter but he was a master of surprise. Well, sort of. I started at the sound of a huge crash behind me. In a panic, I whirled around to see what happened. And there he was, sprawled out all lanky and slim, across the wet floor. His eyes were wide and terrified as if he had never slipped before. I rushed over to comfort him.

"Are you ok, Edward? You have to be careful. The floor's wet." I cooed as a mother would to her child. He nodded.

"Why is the floor wet?" he inquired curiously. "Did it rain?"

I smiled, trying to hold back my laughter. "No, I'm cleaning the floor. This place is filthy. Do you like how it looks so far? It's pretty, huh?" I pulled him to his feet by his arm. He surveyed the area and smiled. It was a reminiscent smile as if he'd seen the mansion like this before, clean, warm, and full of life.

"Why are you cleaning?" he asked as he followed me to the center of the great hall.

"Because, Edward, I was told to take care of this house by my grandfather. It would have meant a lot to him that I did it. From now on, I'm going to take care of both you and your home." I gave him a reassuring smile.

Shyly, he smiled, probably happy for the company. "What were you doing when I came down?" he asked, "I've never heard a sound like that before."

I felt the blood rush to my cheeks in a hot wave of embarrassment. "I was just…singing." Laughing nervously, I peered down at my toes. "I'm pretty awful, huh?"

"Oh no! Not at all. I thought it was beautiful." I felt my ears go red as tomatoes at that statement. No one has ever told me they thought my singing was pretty. I knew I was a terrible singer. It was sometimes hard to listen to myself even. But I accepted the compliment gratefully. I simply told myself that he didn't know any better.

The silence built up like pressure behind a drain blockage. Until "Where is your grandfather?" I had dreaded that question. For a quiet minute, I seethed inside my head. I couldn't believe that Edward would have the audacity to ask me something like that. Something about a wound so freshly inflicted. It was common courtesy to avoid such a subject! "Why would you ask me something like that? How rude can you be?" I growled at him. I saw Edward shudder and retreat a few steps. "I-I'm sorry. I was curious. I won't ask about him anymore." I stood for a moment taking in his reply. He must've thought my stillness was a signal for him to leave me alone so he quickly shuffled back upstairs, his panicked panting and sniffling leaving an echoing trail.

Inhaling and exhaling, I calmed down and felt a tidal wave of guilt come down upon my head. Edward is too sensitive to treat this way. I knew that but I couldn't control it. However, it didn't matter how many excuses I made for myself. I knew that I hurt his feelings – the feelings of the only friend I have. I simply couldn't lose him over something like this. As I slowly climbed the stairs, I began to think, not about how different we were, but how similar we were at heart.

We had no family nearby to care for us. We had no friends to speak of. We were alone, the both of us. We had no other things to do except what we did best – for me, photography; for him, topiary. I admired the way he wore his heart on his sleeve. He admired my confidence. We both needed companionship. We both needed care and love. We both needed a friend.

We were desperate for each other.


End file.
